


Cleanliness Is Next To...

by slipsthrufingers



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5+1 Things, F/M, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/pseuds/slipsthrufingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or Five Memorable Showers Clint Barton and Natasha Have Had, and One Time There Was a Bath Instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleanliness Is Next To...

**1\. Haifa, Israel**

She’s knows now, at least, that he’s been watching her closely for a lot longer than she’d realised. But there isn’t much she can do about it now. And really, she’s _so_ tired of this game, so tired of running, so tired of having to always be ten steps ahead of the pack, it’s almost a relief to be caught.

Her mind swims with the distinctive fog of a tranquiliser, and she’s still not completely conscious. But she is aware enough to feel the plastic zip ties digging into her wrists, strapped together tightly, with another holding her ankles and knees in place. Despite this, she’s still relatively comfortable on the bed, with a pillow beneath her ear, and a light blanket to protect from the chill. 

And even if she could slip these bonds without stripping the flesh from her wrists, there isn’t really anywhere to hide here anyway. He has them holed up in a tiny studio apartment until his extraction team arrives, and the place is, well, a dump. She’s been here in Haifa a few months now, and he has probably been here just as long, but there isn’t a homeliness she would’ve assumed she’d find in a place like his. It is practically an empty space, save for the mattress on the floor and a few milk crates playing the part of furniture. 

The lock turns, and her eyes dart towards the front door, and he shuffles in quietly with a paper bag in one hand, jangling keys in the other. He sees she’s awake straight away, and gives her a tight smile, “You’re up.” He says, lightly, and sets the bag of groceries down in the kitchen.

She blinks, and keeps her face expressionless. “ _You should have killed me when you had the chance._ ” She says quietly in her mother tongue, but there is no doubt he can hear her.

“ _Where’s the fun in that?_ ” He retorts in kind, though his accent is a little strange, as though he learned Russian from a native Japanese speaker.

She doesn’t reply, and sets her head back down on the pillow, but keeps an ever watchful gaze on him as he unpacks the bag onto the bench, not bothering to put things away in cupboards. One of the apples he fishes out doesn’t even make it that far, and instead he bites into it with a crunch that is so sudden and surprising it actually makes her flinch, a little.

Eventually, he returns his attention to her and crosses the few steps between the kitchen and the ratty mattress she lies on, and crouches down beside her with the half-eaten apple gripped tightly in his teeth. He stares at her for a few moments, and she can’t help but meet his gaze, which is unblinking and oddly unnerving. It’s been a long time since she’s felt unnerved.

“So here’s the deal.” He says bluntly, removing the apple. “You’re disarmed. I’m armed. You’re drugged. I’m not. But unless you make a move on me, I’m not going to kill you. How are we doing with that so far?”

And then he pauses and waits for her to respond. She doesn’t react. He doesn’t seem surprised. He takes another bite of the apple, chews and swallows.

“I was sent to kill you, and like you rightly pointed out, I should have done it earlier. But I think that would be a waste, I think you could be valuable. I think you could teach us something... And here’s the thing...” He shifts his weight a little, before leaning back to sit solidly down on the floor with a thud. “I think you’d like to live. Would I be right in thinking that?”

Again, she gives him nothing but silence. And yet she wonders...

“I understand.” He shrugs, “It’s a lot to process. My handler isn’t taking it any better than you are, right now. But he’ll back my play, either way. He trusts me. You just have to let me know what you want me to do.” He reaches behind him and retrieves a hunting knife from a sheath on his belt and holds it clearly where she can see it.

“So either you don’t accept my offer, and I’ll make this as quick and painless as I can, though I’ll be honest with you, up close and personal kills aren’t really my forte.” He sounds genuinely apologetic at that, which is curious. Most people who end up in this business enjoy watching people squirm before they die. He dangles the knife between the hard knuckles of his fingers and continues on. “Or.” He says. “Or, I can cut those bonds of yours and let you have a shower, get yourself cleaned up. I can make you a sandwich, or you can have an apple! They were on special at the market, so I got a few extra...” He waves his own apple at her, and the smell of acidic, sweet fruit tickles her nose, just as the unexpected lightness of his tone sets her off kilter, a little, but he sobers up quickly. “And when the extraction team comes to collect me, you can come with me of your own accord.”

“It’s up to you.” He says finally, takes a final bite of his apple, and then waits. Waits for her to respond. And she can tell that he will wait as long as she needs, that he won’t get impatient and decide for her. 

She does as he says and weighs it all up in her mind, tallies her ledger, decides on the best course of action.

And then.

“I could do with a shower.” She says.

 

**2\. Naples, Italy**

Comms to central control have been dark almost thirty hours, and the issue isn’t on their end. They have contingency plans for this sort of thing, alternative channels of communication, carrier pigeon if need be, but she and Clint agreed twelve hours ago that they’d see this mission through before heading back. Their objectives were top priority when they were assigned, a communication blackout wouldn’t change that. Central control would have to make do without them, and when they were done here, then they would return, guns ablazing, ready for anything that might arise.

But the blackout means more than just a simple dark op. It means they need to gather and screen their own intel. Interception, translation, analysis, it all lies on their shoulders, not some analyst on the helicarrier. This is the deep end, and they’ve been tossed in. Either they sink, or they swim.

Documents are strewn across every flat surface, some in piles, most spread out, haphazardly scattered. But there is order there. It’s an order that only she and Clint understand, but there is order there nonetheless. A few particularly important documents have been pinned to the wall with arrowheads, red marker circling the truly important data.

Natasha blinks purposefully, willing her eyelids to produce just a little more fluid to combat her dry, itchy eyes. Then she stares down at her computer again, translating the document in front of her as quickly as she can type. Most of the translation has been left up to her. Clint is multilingual, but never bothered to learn to read the majority of the languages he knows. Especially the ones that do not operate with alphanumeric characters. He likes to call himself a “practical polyglot”.

At that, she mutters under her breath: “ _Practical my ass,_ ”-- in Armenian, because she knows he can understand it, and flips to the next page of the document. 

So while she is stuck here translating, he does the groundwork, tails suspects, roughs up their contacts, protects their cover, and -- she breathes in deeply at the smell of something warm and rich and garlicky that he brings home with him, trapped inside little styrofoam boxes -- he gets them food.

“Take a break, Nat.” He says, nimbly picking his way across the floor by stepping in the few spots without paperwork, before putting the food down on top of the aging television. “I got you a paella.”

“Please say you have coffee.” She says, and sets the laptop aside.

Clint pulls a large cardboard cup from the bag and holds it out to her, but when she reaches out to take it, he pulls it swiftly out of her reach with an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Nat. They didn’t have fair-trade beans.”

If she didn’t need him to finish this goddamn job, she would’ve murdered him right then and there. Natasha snatches the coffee from him and takes a long, quick gulp. It scalds her mouth a little, but she is beyond caring about such trivial things as tastebuds.

“So we can’t joke about that when you’re tired, can we?”

“I haven’t slept in three days,”

“Neither have I, but you don’t see me promising death with my eyes.”

She returns her attentions to the bag of food. The promised paella is there, but there is also a packet of sugary candy and a few plump apricots rolling around in the bottom. 

“I am allergic to stone fruit.” Natasha says flatly.

“Which is why the candy is for you, and the fruit is for me.” Clint says, and she is too tired to find his penchant for fresh fruit as odd as she normally would. She simply takes her food from the bag and has another sip of her coffee.

“You stink.” She says bluntly, noticing, now that her stomach has something to work with, just how pungent he is. And he seems to know it too, he crinkles his nose and looks down at his dusty shirt. He’s been wearing it for two days in the hot Italian sun, following lead after lead down old stone streets. 

“Yeah.” He admits with a careless shrug.

“Have a shower.” She commands, and points towards the bathroom door.

He fishes an apricot out of the bag, and does as instructed and picks his way through the scattered documents to the bathroom, before pausing for a second, as though he’s just remembered something. He pulls something small from the back of his pocket and says: “Think fast,” before tossing it in her direction. She snatches it out of the air and switches her brain back to Italian so she can read the packet: _Visine_ \- Eye drops.

“Thank you,” She says, but the bathroom door is already closed, and she can hear the telltale sounds of shoes being kicked off and clothes being shucked, then the creaking of this hotel’s old pipes, and then, finally, the sound of water spray.

Natasha takes her food, the coffee and the eye-drops back to her work station in the centre of their intel, and prepares herself for translation: round two. But first, she inhales the paella and the rest of the coffee, and wipes her greasy hands on her pants and then administers the eye-drops. The relief is instantaneous, and she closes her eyes to let the drops soak in and rehydrate her abused eyeballs. A few droplets spill out her tear ducts and roll down her cheeks but she doesn’t wipe them away, choosing instead to let them dry where they are. 

Then she hears it. It’s muffled, both by the bathroom door and the noise of the water, but there is no mistaking the sound of Clint singing in the next room. She can’t hear all the lyrics, only indistinct words here and there. It’s not a song she recognises, but that is more to do with her ignorance of more popular music, than his singing prowess.

She wonders why she’s never heard him sing before, if it is something he only does in the shower. Did he hear the song while he was out in Naples today? Is he singing it because it is stuck in his head? Is it because he is running on as little sleep as she is, and this is how he responds to exhaustion? Is he stressed because he is worried about his friends in central control? She has colleagues there, but he has friends. He has people who stop him in the corridor just to say hi, to share a private joke.

Natasha opens her eyes, and the fluorescent light of the room is sobering, and the Visine tears have dried on her cheeks. She returns her focus to the laptop screen, and reads through the next email.

But she opens her bag of candy first.

 

**3\. Somewhere in Venezuela**

“This way!” Natasha yells back over her shoulder, and picks up the pace. She doesn’t check to make sure he’s following, and instead trusts in his trust in her. They can’t out-run these mercenaries forever, but splitting up to draw their fire is not an option. She has the package, but he has the distress beacon, and they need both to get home.

No. They need to hide, and she has an idea.

The rainforest they are sprinting through is dangerous and slippery, but she ducks under hanging vines and weaves around rotting logs as quickly as she can, knowing that Clint will follow almost as nimbly, but that those following them will struggle. Not everyone spends years training as a professional dancer, or joins the circus. But their foes still have automatic weapons, lots of automatic weapons, and she and Clint are out of ammo. And so they run.

The forest floor slopes downward, and just as she hoped, she hears the distinctive sound of rushing water. The further they run, the louder it gets, until they break through the brush and a fast flowing stream, choppy with rapids appears in front of them.

It is only now that she glances back at her companion, who is red in the face and panting just as hard as her. She gives him the smallest tilt of the head, downstream, and his face flashes with instant understanding. Good. She unhooks the last of her flash-bangs, arms it, then throws it as far into the forest on the other side of the water as she can.

Together they barge into the stream, which is only knee deep at this point, but still the water current is extremely strong. They’d passed this way the day before, on their way to the infiltration point, and had a few minutes to explore the area before heading on.

They sprint as best they can down the stream, which gets easier as it becomes more shallow, but the stones beneath their feet smooth out, so that it becomes harder and harder to get a firm grip. The sound of rushing water is louder here, and looking ahead, the air becomes misty and clouded, and...

Natasha slips forward with a crash onto her stomach, slipping and sliding along with the rushing water, the current here hammering her along. She hears a shout behind them, and she fumbles for the remote on her belt. There is an audible explosion from behind, and more shouts and Clint tries to catch her foot, but trips forward himself, and she only just manages to grab a hold of his wrist when they are swept headfirst over the lip of the waterfall.

For a second, she feels as though she is suspended in mid-air, without any nuisance such as gravity or momentum working on her at all. All she knows is the water that surrounds her and Clint’s wrist in a roman grip with hers. They hit the water face first, and the strength of the water, and the danger of whatever lurks below the bubbling, churning water here, forces them apart. She tucks in on herself, curling up into a tight ball to prevent herself from diving too deeply into the unknown waters, and when she has control, she fights every natural instinct to go with the water flow to where there is air, and instead pushes back, towards the stone wall of the falls.

There is a tiny ledge here, and a small cave. Enough for a grown man, or a few small children to fit inside, but she does not lift herself up. She clings to the ledge and spins around, eyes wide frantically watching for any sign of her partner. It was a dangerous, risky move, and though the water was clear where she landed, perhaps he had not been so lucky. Or perhaps he’d swum away from the water, or had been dragged downstream by the current. It feels like an eternity that she waits for a sign of life, blinking through the water and the darkness for any glimpse of skin, shoe, his khaki backpack, and then he erupts from the black dark water with a vicious cough of water, hands grasping for her. She grabs his shirt at the shoulder and drags him over to the ledge, guiding his hands to the same hold she has, until they are both gripping it, white knuckled.

“You are crazy.” He says with a rasp.

She does not bother trying to deny it. Now that he is here with her, they have a moment or two to recollect and recuperate. “I hope it worked.” She says, and slips her free arm from her backpack, twisting so she can fit it up in the little cave. Clint follows suit, hoisting his own pack up and alongside hers.

They open their bags and start pulling out anything that might be useful. Natasha has a length of rope and a few caribenas, Clint has a slingshot, and thankfully their exfil tracker is waterproof and wasn’t damaged in the fall.

The package they retrieved is a little worse for wear, with a deep crack in the outer casing. She holds it up to show Clint. He frowns a little but doesn’t seem angry.

“Nothing we can do about that now.” He says, “We just gotta hope the data recovery jocks can work with it and pull something useful.”

She nods and wraps it back up in some of the plastic sheeting they’d used to protect their camp on the first night. It won’t be completely waterproof, but it’ll have to do for now. “No one has followed us over yet.” She notes, turning back to watch the cascading shower of water that hides them from outside eyes, but also stops them from seeing anything useful.

“Doesn’t mean they’re not out there, waiting.” Clint says, “I didn’t see if your flashbang worked or not.”

“No way of knowing unless we can get eyes out there.” She says, and then she propels herself off the cave wall, back into the thundering water. The water beats down on her skull, pushing her back into the water a little, though she’s still not completely submerged. She uses it to her advantage, and stays low in the churning froth, using it to blend in, or as much as one can with hair as bright as hers.

Natasha doesn’t let the current drag her all the way out, but instead catches an outcrop of rocks to the side to cling to and make her observations. She can’t hear anything with the crashing water so close by, but there is no one on either side of the creek for as far as she can see. She keeps an eye out for anything out of place, any disturbed animals or signs of men passing through, but it seems safe enough. If they are careful about how they get out of here, they should be able to double back around their pursuers, climb a few trees and activate their tracker about half a mile back.

She swims back underneath the waterfall and Clint grabs her hand to pull her onto the ledge.

“We can leave the shower.” She says, and explains her plan. He agrees, but there is an odd expression on his face that she is not sure she can decipher.

“Problem?” She asks.

“I just figured our first shower together would be a lot more fun, and a lot more naked.” He says, and his face splits into a cheeky grin.

Maybe it is the stress, but a laugh bubbles up in her throat, “In your dreams, Barton.” She says, and leads him out.

 

**4\. Budapest, Hungary**

“Tasha,” Clint calls. “I need your help.”

She’s barely conscious, exhausted from the day they’ve just endured together. She’s only really awake because she’s going through the motions, still fuelled by something like adrenaline, or habit, or instinct. But despite this lethargy that chills her to her core, she forces herself onto her feet and hobbles over to the bathroom door.

“Yeah?” She croaks, voice cracking from the abusive combination of smoke inhalation and a vicious stranglehold.

“Come in.” He calls. She opens the door slowly, not sure what to expect. He’d made a beeline to the shower as soon as they’d secured the building. 

Clint has his back to her, but it’s not because he’s hiding. Quite the opposite. She sees straight away why he needs her help, and she mutters a crass phrase or two at herself for not noticing earlier that he was this badly hurt. Natasha should’ve known better though, she shouldn’t have just assumed. He’d been dragged behind the truck for half a kilometer on a gravel road, without the protection provided by the kevlar and leather of his uniform.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She says in a flat whisper.

“This is me telling you, Nat.”

His shirt is in tatters, and the undershirt didn’t fare much better. What fabric has remained is stained with dirt and blood, and the patches of skin that she can see through the torn shirts is angry and red. Clint shifts, standing a little taller, but she sees the muscles ripple across his back and knows that he won’t be able to undress himself, let alone administer the first aid he so desperately needs. It might be bad enough to need a surgeon. But she’s all he has for now.

“I can’t...” He says, but she interrupts.

“We’ll have to cut it off.” She says and steps forward, slipping one of her sharper blades from her belt. She hovers her hands a few inches above his shoulders, assessing the best way to remove it without exacerbating the problem, or causing him any more pain... But really, with gravel rash this extensive, it’s going to be a painful operation, no matter how delicate her work.

“This is going to hurt a lot.” She says, and he nods in understanding. 

“Just get it over and done with.” He grunts, and braces himself against the wall and the shower door.

She works as quickly and as carefully as she can, strategically cutting through the fabric at his shoulders, down his sides, creating slits in the sleeves right down to the wrists, so that she can peel it away slowly from the skin. It’s a messy task. Some of the worst affected patches of skin have blistered and have begun to weep and dry out, adhering the fabric to the skin, making it hard to tug away. Every now and then he gasps, or flinches, but he doesn’t move and lets her work as quickly as possible. What worries her more are the occasional sprays of gravel and dirt that are embedded in his flesh. It could be a few days until they can get quality medical assistance, and if she doesn’t do something about it, he might find himself with a nasty infection. Not to mention that burns are debilitatingly painful, and the ibuprofen that she has in her kit bag is not going to be enough to relieve the swelling or the pain.

Natasha takes stock of what other options she has. There is a stack of towels in the linen cupboard, some aloe vera moisturiser, and...

She sets her blade down on the bench, leans around Clint and twists the cold water on. He is still tense beside her, and seems reluctant to move. But she understands. Any kind of movement right now is probably agony, the fact that he’d asked for her help is proof enough that it’s bad. 

She crouches down and removes his shoes first, coaxing him to lift first one foot, then the other, with a gentle hand behind the knee. Socks come off too, and she tosses it all in the corner. His shirt is already gone, so it’s just his pants. She maintains eye contact with him as she unbuckles his belt, quickly slipping the leather from the metal clasp and makes quick work of his zipper and buttons.

“If you wanted in my pants, Tash, you just had to ask.” He jokes, but he is pale, and tired, and it is almost as though he is going through the motions.

“Please,” Natasha says with the tiniest of smiles. “I’ve seen it all before.” She stands and finds herself level with Clint’s best confused expression.

“Wait, when?’ He asks.

“You think I didn’t watch you as closely as you watched me?” She asks, and gently slides his pants and underwear off his hips until they pool on the floor at his feet. She takes his hand in her own and tries to guide him over the lip of the tub and into the shower, but he has stiffened, and struggles to move against the building pain. He’s too large for her to lift from this angle unless she wants to hurt him further, or risk him overbalancing and landing on her. No, she can only lift him from the front, and she can only do that if she’s in the shower first.

She sighs, “Our second shower together will be more naked, but no more fun.” She says to him, and quickly removes her own shirt and pants, leaving her in just her underwear. Her S.H.I.E.L.D. first aid trainer had never anticipated this scenario, but second degree burns are serious and this is the only solution they have at the moment. The water is freezing, but she restrains the instinctual flinch, and immerses herself under the spray. Then he takes Clint’s hands and pulls him forward, until she can get enough leverage under one of his shoulders, and then she _lifts_ , and...

His knees buckle a little when the cold water hits the burned skin of his back, but she manages to support him enough to prevent him from collapsing completely. 

“You should have told me before.” Natasha says, with a grunt, twisting them so the cool water flows directly on to his damaged skin. He makes a noise, something like a gasp, but whether it’s pain or relief she can’t say.

“I didn’t think it was this bad.” He confesses quietly. “It didn’t hurt when I didn’t know if...”

He trails off, and relaxes a little against her. 

“I can look after myself.” She says, “I’m harder to kill than you think.”

Clint lets out a knowing little laugh, but Natasha can hear the sadness there. “I know.” He says, and he twists his head a little so it is resting in the crook of her neck, but he brings his other hand up to gently cup her bruised throat, where strong hands had throttled only hours earlier. She hears him take a long, deep breath, in through the nose, out through the mouth. 

“I do.” He says. “I really do.”

 

**5\. Just outside Chicago, United States of America**

Natasha takes pride in her ability to remain cool and calm in stressful situations. It’s not a talent that many people have naturally, and for her, it is a hard-earned skill, refined through years of exposure to extremely high-risk situations. She does not break into sweats.

And yet...

She finds herself nervous, hyper-alert to Clint’s position on the other side of the room, cautious of the people around her. She keeps her elbows tucked into her side, not wanting to get in anybody’s way, and she welcomes the warm buzz of the champagne in her glass, wishing it were something a little stronger.

“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” A man says from behind, surprising her a little. It’s not a feeling she’s familiar with. She twists around quickly, coming face to face with Phil, who has a warm (if a little bland) smile on his face.

“This is a very nice party,” She says formally, gesturing with her free hand to the pastel balloons and guests littered about the room. And while the decorations are not particularly to her taste, the rest of the guests seem to be enjoying themselves, playing Pin-The-Diaper-On-The-Baby, and Guess-The-Baby-Food-Flavour. She takes another sip of her champagne. “Congratulations, Phil.”

“Thanks.” He says, “I’m glad you decided to come. You look lovely.”

She glances down at her dress-- it’s not something she would normally wear, but Clint had informed her that black was not an appropriate choice for a baby shower, and so she had had to make do with this simple green number instead. “Thanks.” She says. “Congratulations, by the way. How long have you known?”

“Caroline is 7 months along, but we decided not to make a big deal about it. This party was her mother’s idea.”

“Makes sense.” She nods politely, and then because she feels obligated to keep the conversation from dropping into awkward conversation, or perhaps because she feels the need to explain her obvious discomfort and anti-social behaviour, she says: “I’ve never been to one of these before.”

Phil leans forward and says quietly. “Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. And you are in no way obligated to partake in the games.” He points to the baby-food tasting station, where Clint is tasting a spoonful of some kind of green mushy mixture. The expression on his face is quite unique, and he catches Natasha’s eye as he swallows.

“Peas!” Clint cries, and the ladies around him whoop and clap. He punches a victorious fist into the air.

“He is an idiot.” She rolls her eyes, and turns back to Phil, who has been watching the whole thing with a fond smile.

“He can be,” Phil agrees, and Clint seems to sense that he is the topic of their conversation, and graciously gives up the game, and the fawning ladies, to head in their direction.

“Congratulations, man.” He says, slapping Phil heartily on the back, nodding towards Caroline, who is happily sipping a flute of apple juice and playing around with some extremely tiny socks. “She’s a keeper.”

“I’ll let her know you approve.” Phil says, and Clint turns to Natasha. He snatches the champagne glass from her hand and knocks what remains in the glass back in one long gulp. Natasha is too surprised to be angry.

“That was mine.” She says, dumbfounded.

“Yeah, and pea mush is disgusting.” Clint says, in a manner that suggests that in his eyes, the crimes are equal. He turns to Phil. “Do not, for the love of God, feed your future son or daughter the pea mush, or you’ll be asking for Daddy issues down the line.”

“Duly noted,” Phil says, and turns when Caroline calls from across the room, baby socks dangling from her fingers. “Excuse me, I’m needed.” He says apologetically, and leaves them alone.

“I can’t believe you stole my drink,” Natasha says, unable to hide the scowl.

“I told you, the pea mush...” He protests, but she is having none of it.

“I didn’t make you eat the pea mush, that was your choice.” 

He slings an arm across her shoulders, “I’m sorry for stealing your drink, Nat.” He offers with a pout. “How can I make it up to you?”

“Well you can get me a new drink, for starters.” She says. 

Clint raises an eyebrow at her, “Is that it?” He asks, and he pulls a battered silver flash from his back pocket and holds it out to her. “Then we’re square.”

She pops the lid on the flash and sniffs-- it’s filled with high-quality vodka, and she is not one to turn down quality vodka. “What sort of man brings a flask of vodka to a baby shower?” She asks, enjoying the burn of the alcohol as it trickles down her throat. This is what she’d been looking for before, this was the warmth that calmed her.

He shrugs, “A man who has you as his date? I don’t know.”

Clint still has his arm slung across her shoulders, so she can feel the subtle way he stiffens against her, as though he has slipped up and said something he perhaps did not mean to say. He returns his attentions to the champagne glass he’d liberated from her earlier and fishes the alcohol-soaked strawberry out of the bottom and pops it into his mouth.

“I didn’t realise this was a date.” She says slowly.

“It’s not, officially.” Clint admits, “But we arrived together, so everyone here thinks, you know... we’re together... It’s not the worst feeling in the world having people think you’re my girlfriend.”

“I would never be your ‘girlfriend’, Clint.” She says flatly, in her best no nonsense tone, and he deflates a little. “Partner? Fine.”

“It’s cool,” He says, and hastily removes his arm. “Didn’t want to presume, anyway...”

She stops him with an arm on his. “No, Clint. I mean... I didn’t mean it like that...” She lets out a frustrated sigh, searching for the best way to explain herself and she finally settles on: “I’m happy to be here with you.”

Clint is silent for a long moment, during which he stares at Phil and Caroline, who’re playing with some new baby monitors, happy, content smiles on their faces. “Me too.” He says.

“We should talk about this more, when I’m back from Russia.” She says, a little hopeful. “I shouldn’t be there more than a week.”

“Can we just pause for a moment and agree that it’s unfair you get the fun interrogation jobs, and I get the lame ‘babysit the physicists and weird glowing blue thingy’ missions?”

“Next time I promise I’ll let you take the job with the short skirt and heels.” She deadpans, and she takes another sip from his flask. “I’m sure you’ll look very alluring.”

“Damn straight.”

 

**6.... ???**

“When do we need to be back?” Clint asks.

“Fury wants us on the helicarrier for a debrief on Tuesday,” Natasha replies. “We’re under orders to stay off the radar til then.”

“I have no problem with that.” Clint says, and Natasha makes a noise of agreement. He lifts the sponge out of the tub and squeezes some hot, soapy water across her neck and shoulders, then lower still, across her chest. She drops her head back against his shoulder, lets out a small noise of content and closes her eyes. 

“I feel bruised all over.” She murmurs.

“Yeah? Well someone bit me,” He holds his forearm up in front of her face, and she opens her eyes to see the angry red bite mark has not faded yet. She’s surprised she didn’t break skin. Natasha lifts her hand from beneath the bubbles and brings his arm close for a kiss. She then slips her fingers between his and guides them into her hair, until they are both pressing gently against an abused section of scalp.

“This is where you tore out my hair from the scalp.” She says, but doesn’t let him linger, instead she twists in his arms, settling her legs on either side of him and pressing her chest to his. He, in turn, circles his arms around her, holding her gently to him, aware the bruises and injuries are still fresh on them both.

“Tash, I’m sorry...” He offers, looking sincere and a little broken.

“Don’t be.” She says firmly, pressing a hand down onto his chest. “It wasn’t you, and I’m fine. Hair will regrow, and your arm will heal... And we have _three whole days_ before debrief.”

“What are we going to do with all that time?” Clint asks, eyes wide and innocent, but his hands have moved to a place that is decidedly _not innocent_. 

“I’m sure we can think of something.”


End file.
